


Words

by Flyting



Series: Words [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4555164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flyting/pseuds/Flyting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He will tell them both that he’s fine, and if he says it often enough, for long enough, it will no longer be a lie.</i>
</p><p>Or, Gold has thinly-veiled PTSD after being held captive by Zelena.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken

Words had power.

It was the earliest form of magic he’d ever learned; a fact as old as magic itself. If you knew the name of a thing, you had the power to control it. And after all, what was a name but a word?

A signature on a contract. A name carved on a dagger.   
  
He knew better than probablyanyone else the damage that words could do.

 _Coward_  was one that spent a lot of time battering at the edge of his mind, but it was a familiar enough presence that he could ignore it.   
  
_Weak_  was more insidious, crawling out of the dark when he least expected it.  _Pathetic_.   
  
They always took him by surprise and left him reeling.  
  
_Liar_  sat uncomfortably in his mind, like a guest that knew how little it was welcome. He didn’t lie, as a rule. He had never needed to, not when words had always lined up for him so neatly, eager to do exactly as he bid them. Now lies were dropping out of his mouth unexpectedly, every time he opened it. Sweet little lies, all the more unpalatable for how much they meant well.   
  
“It’s nothing.”  
  
“There’s no need to worry.”  
  
“I’m fine, sweetheart, I promise.”  
  
And every time the creak of the cellar stairs makes his hands start to shake, or the feeling of fingers running through his hair suddenly stole all the air from his body, ‘ _broken’_  was never far behind. Sometimes he thought he saw it reflected in Belle’s eyes, there, just behind the blue.

It was there when she wrapped her arms around him from behind in the kitchen, and he couldn’t help it he stopped breathing for just a second, his spine suddenly gone rigid.  
  
It was and gone in a flash when she happened to glance at his plate over dinner, frowning as she tried to figure out why it looked like the food had just been pushed around instead of actually eaten.   
  
And it was there as he murmured excuses, spinning obedient words into anything but the truth- that when she pressed her lips against his neck  _just like that_ , he suddenly found himself in another bed, with another woman, and dagger with a name carved into it.  
  
_Broken._  
  
BrokenBrokenBroken

There were other words too. There were words he didn’t dare give shape to, even in the safety of his own mind.  He knew their power far too well.

Luckily, if there’s one thing he knows deep in his bones, it’s how to swallow something down and never, ever speak of it again. He will smile, and kiss his wife, and eat without remembering. So long as the words stay safely locked away in his head, never given voice or power, they can’t destroy him.

She doesn’t get to destroy him. Not  _her_. He won’t give her the  _satisfaction_.

He will tell them both that he’s fine, and if he says it often enough, for long enough, it will no longer be a lie. 


	2. Eat

These days, Rumplestiltskin finds it difficult not to feel like a hunted thing.  
  
It’s hardly befitting a newlywed, he knows. He should be happy. He should be blissfully, urgently happy, in his new life with Belle. He’s finally gotten what he wanted. Not everything he wanted, but enough.  
  
If there’s one thing life has taught him it’s that any happiness, no matter how sweet, no matter how desperately longed-for, is, in the end, only a short reprieve. Happiness is a respite, to catch his breath before it’s time to run again. It’s only a matter of time. The hunter always catches up.  
  
But he’ll enjoy this reprieve while it lasts. He’s earned that much.  
  
He’ll shore up his defenses, even if it feels like trying to fix a failing dam by sticking his fingers in the cracks, and try to carry on with life without listening to the distant crush of the water, just waiting to wash away this fragile new life he’s built for himself. Some days it’s easier than others.  
  
Today hasn’t been one of them.  
  
He meant to do things properly. He usually does. Flowers, dinner, wine, and perhaps they can manage to spend an hour or two simply enjoying each other’s company without death or danger looming over their heads. Everything was on the right track. They laughed as they talked about nothing important at all; books she’d read, places he’d been, and funny stories they’d both heard.  
  
Then Belle, smiling, her nose wrinkled sweetly up as she tried not to laugh at some stupid joke he’d made, said, “Now, don’t start that. _Eat_.”  
  
She is smirking at him across the table, coy and waiting for a playful response, but it’s like she’s thrown a bucket of ice water down his back. Suddenly he can’t breathe.  
  
He closes his eyes, trying to unbend suddenly-rigid limbs. Finds that he’s suddenly terrified to open them again, for fear that he’ll see a wire cage staring back at him.  
  
_“Eat up. We’ve got work to do.”_  
  
He hears Belle’s voice, as if from the bottom of a well, asking him what’s wrong, if he’s alright. Rational questions demanding rational answers. He has none for her.  
  
“Don’t-” he says, faintly, then finally managing to draw in a shaky breath, “Don’t _order me-”_ he forces himself to stop, because the words are coming out all wrong; sharper, more vicious than what he intends. He swallows around the lump in his throat.  
  
“ _Please_ ,” he says, blunting them. He speaks carefully, one hand fluttering between them as if he can pluck the right words out of the air, “Please, Belle, don’t tell me… to eat.”  
  
“It…” Words have always been his tools of the trade, but just for this moment the little traitors have deserted him completely. Belle needs to understand, she _deserves_ to understand, but he can’t explain to her what that simple command does to him. That helplessness and disgust at having so little control _over your own body..._  
  
 _Eat. You’re going to need your strength.  
_  
 _Eat it. Swallow. Every last bite._  
  
“It’s something she used to do, isn’t it?” Belle asks, calm and quiet, and as usual seeing straight through to the heart of him. It’s both a comfort and a source of continual terror.  
  
‘She’, in that tone, is always only ever one person. They don’t use her name between them.  
  
Rumplestiltskin had often heard it said that no one was truly dead until their name was no longer spoken in the world. In this particular case, he’s more than eager to do his part in hastening the inevitable.  
  
He nods once, slightly. Opens his eyes and meets hers, and can hardly stomach the _pity_ he sees there.  
  
_Broken_ , it whispers. _  
_  
He gropes around in the dark for something, anything to say that will banish it, and bangs his shins on, “It’s cruel to order anyone to eat this anyway…”  
  
He knows he’s made a mistake before the mumbled comment has even left his mouth. It would have been funny years and worlds ago, when she was his maid and teasing, childish quips were the only way he knew to speak to her.  
  
Well, he would have laughed, anyway. Now she’s his wife and it’s just rude.  
  
At least that look of pity is gone, replaced with a flash of guarded hurt before she rallies. “It’s hardly as bad as all that. Well… better than the time I tried to make that pizza, anyway.”  
  
That should have been the end of it. A better man would have taken the opportunity to let the subject drop; tried to salvage the rest of their evening together and return to being _happy_.

He spends the rest of the evening prodding at his own black thoughts like a sore tooth. The tension leaves him miserable and tetchy, snapping at Belle and apologizing in the same breath, until her growing exasperation with his behavior warns him to remove himself before her patience with her new husband has entirely worn thin.  
  
Retreating to the cellar, he seats himself at his wheel and spins. The well-worn wood under his hands is as familiar an extension of his own body. It’s one thing, at least, that _she_ can’t spoil for him.    
  
Spin to remember. Spin to forget  
  
_I think the spinning is bringing the madness._  
  
He spins until the only voice in his head is his own.


	3. Wordless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a reprieve before it gets dark again.

Rumplestiltskin is a connoisseur of silences. He has learned to savor them like another man might a fine wine.  
  
This one is thick and comforting, with steady, repetitive notes of creaking wood and the ticking of a clock. As familiar as home.

A harsh, artificial buzzing shatters his careful silence, pulling him back to the world. He breathes slowly, gathering together all the scattered pieces of himself before nudging the little plastic timer until it stops clattering.

It had been their little compromise- his and Belle’s. An alarm clock next to his wheel and the long worktables where he did his magic. A banal, everyday thing, to remind him not to lose himself completely down here and neglect her.

She, in turn, had promised not to worry about him, nor to come looking for him unless he failed to return at the agreed-upon time. 

He had been determined to do things right this time.

So even though he still feels faintly like his skin is on too tight, he obliges, resetting the clock and returning upstairs. Loses himself instead in the mindlessly comforting, human rituals of brushing his teeth and dressing for bed, taking his time, until he thinks he has stitched together enough of the tattered remnants of his personality to make a good show of being perfectly fine.

Belle is already there when he climbs between the sheets, propped up on the majority of their pillows, with a book against her knees. She lifts her arm obligingly, without looking, allowing him to lie close and bury his face in her side. She smells strongly of soap, her skin still radiating the heat from her bath.

She isn’t angry with him, which is more to her credit than his, but he’s not exactly in her good graces either. Not that he can really blame her. For all his myriad faults, Rumplestiltskin at least credits himself with recognizing when he’s been an ass. He’s blessed with amazing clarity of hindsight. But in this moment, lying close beside her, he suddenly finds that he's forgotten all of his carefully prepared apologies. It's just as well. Instead, he hopes that a silent apology- for his harsh words, for ruining their evening, for being _broken-_ will bleed through the places where his skin is touching hers.

He waits in turn for her questions, her well-meaning concerns; the not-quite-a-lie already on his lips. But they don’t come. After a moment, Belle begins idly carding her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. A wordless gesture of forgiveness for a wordless apology.

However he wanted things to end up tonight, he is more than content to lay there while she plays with his hair, letting her soothing touch chase away the lingering tension in his spine. Their silence is warm and comforting, broken only by the occasional rustle of a turning page. Not a perfect evening, but he’s happy enough with the conclusion. Eventually, he turns his head, the better to watch her while she reads.

It’s an exciting book. Something fast-paced and adventurous. Her eyes dart quickly over the text, back and forth, like a metronome. She’s biting her lip, frowning, and as he watches her brows shoot up in silent surprise. One finger is already poised to turn the next page.

He cannot see the writing from this angle, but it doesn’t matter. Where Belle is an expert at peeling apart the nuances in a piece of text, delighting at uncovering each new layer of meaning the author has infused into the words, Rumplestiltskin takes his pleasure in dissecting the object itself. A book was a highly personal thing. It could tell you an entire world of stories about the people who had owned it, long before you even opened the first page.

This one was brand new. A large and glossy modern paperback, with the price sticker still on the back cover. He vaguely recognized the title as something children read. The pages were still crisp, the spine barely creased, so that she was obliged to brace her fingers in the center to hold it open. A corner of the sticker was peeling where Belle had picked at it with her thumb while she was reading.

He nudges the cover a little with one finger, trying to get a better look at the front without distracting her.

“Is this the second one?” he asks.

“The third,” she says after a long minute and a relieved page-turn. “I finished the second one this morning.”

And she had rushed out immediately to buy the next book, unwilling to wait even a day for it to come in at the library. He pictures her sneaking eager glances at the first few pages while standing in the checkout line at the book store, and smiles.

“That good?”

“Mmhm…” She is already lost in the pages again, so he does not bother to press her further.

He turns over, pressing his face to the pillow to block out the dim light from her bedside lamp. There is still half a book to go and he knows better than to suggest that she save it for tomorrow.

Perhaps he should get her a timer, he thinks with a tired snicker.  
  
Drifting, half awake and half asleep, listening to the quiet sounds of pages turning and the occasional shocked gasp, he is almost at peace.  
  
"Rumple?” he is nearly asleep, only to realize that she sounds he’s hearing are words. Belle’s voice is tight with concern. “Rumple?”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“These books are just fictions, aren’t they? I mean, the districts and the games and things- they didn’t really happen in this world, did they?”  
  
“No, no,” he mumbles into his pillow. “S’just a book. I’m sure I would have heard about it.”  
  
If she says anything more, he is too far gone to hear it.  
  



	4. Half-truths

Belle was still asleep, curled over on her side like a child. Her discarded book lay on the bed between them. One of her hands was still stuck between the pages, holding onto the place where she must have finally given in to sleep.  
  
 A stray strand of hair fluttered across her face as she breathed.  
  
He lays there, simply watching. She looked so peaceful. Warm and comfortable beside him, in the early-morning stillness of the room. His wife.  
  
One hand reaches out slowly, careful not to wake her, and tucks the hair back behind her ear. His fingertips trace lightly across the soft curve of her cheek and down the line of her chin. Belle makes a warm, sleepy sound.  
  
His hand closes firmly around her throat and _squeezes_.  
  
Her eyes pop open, darting frantically around the room in unseeing panic until she catches sight of him. Her mouth falls open with a choked gasp, “Rumple _, no-“_  
  
But she doesn’t have the dagger anymore. She can’t command him. He’s made sure of _that_.  
  
He tightens his grip and _shakes_ , jerking her head back and forth on the pillow until the sounds stop. There’s a bite of pain as her fingers dig into his wrist, sharp little nails scratching, drawing blood, trying to push his hand off of her neck.  
  
Another quick jerk of his hand, a surge of magic, and she’s thrown, flying backwards off the bed. She hits the wall with a sharp yelp, hard enough to rattle the picture frames, before collapsing on the floor like a broken rag doll.  
  
After a moment she pushes herself up on shaking arms, coughing and uncoordinated, but crawling across the floor slowly on hands and knees towards the door. Sliding across her still-warm space on the bed, he follows her. Pushes her easily back to the floor with one hand between her shoulder blades.  
  
“Don’t-“ she rasps, “Rumple, don’t do this. This isn’t you- _please_ \- listen to me- stop, just stop-“  
  
The words tug at something inside him, scrabbling desperately at a closed door in his mind, behind which something is screaming. But there’s another voice in his head, drowning out all other thought but obedience. “Perfect. Now finish her,” it purrs, warm and pleased. A woman’s voice.  
  
He pins Belle face-down to the floor with one knee in the center of her back, and reaches both hands around her neck. Something in his blood thrums, pounding with pleasure _;_ the satisfaction of a command obeyed _._  
  
Belle’s voice, saying his name-  
  
A figure in black looming just behind him, a metallic sound, and then the sharp scratch through his clothes as the tip of a dagger is dragged up his spine. Cold metal slides against his neck, ruffling his hair, as the body beneath him shakes, trembling, and then goes still-  
  
_“There now, aren’t you happy to be home?”_ Zelena says.  
  
Hands touching his face-  
  
“Rumple-”  
  
A ring of purple-black bruises around her neck, the color of magic.  
  
“No…”  
  
“Rumplestiltskin, wake up!”  
  
He surfaces, gasping for breath like a drowned man. But Belle’s eyes, bright with concern, are there waiting for him like a lifeline. She is leaning over him, her discarded book lying on his chest. It slides off, forgotten, as he struggles to sit up. He touches her face, her neck, with shaking fingers and- relieved to find no marks there- pulls her close until he has her cradled against his chest like a fragile thing. He wraps his arms around her gingerly, stroking the back of her head until he suddenly remembers the feel of the delicate bones in her throat breaking under his hands and moves them down around her waist where they can do no damage.  
  
She is alive. He repeats the words over and over in his head like a mantra. Alive. Safe and whole.   
  
The bedside light is still on, illuminating the clock, which tells him that he’s slept for barely an hour.  
  
Belle’s hands flutter cautiously around his head; stroking his shoulders and pushing the clinging, sweat-damp hair back off of his face. “You’re alright. You’re alright, shh- it was only a nightmare.” Her voice is a low murmur of comfort.  
  
Something is making rough gasping sounds. After a moment he realizes that it’s him, and stops.  
  
It nearly wasn’t, he wants to tell her.  
  
“Do you want to tell me what it was?” she asks carefully, from somewhere against his shoulder.  
  
When he doesn’t respond, she continues, “My father used to tell me that some dreams were wishes, and that you should never share them or else they wouldn’t come true. So I always tell someone my nightmares, just to make sure.”  
  
Of course, his Belle was more than familiar with the power of words.

There is logic enough in what she says, at least in their world. It could easily be true. For just a moment he is surprised and pleased, that Belle should have grasped as a child a connection he had never made in centuries of practicing his craft.

He lingers on the distraction, turning this new theory over in his head. Prolonging the inevitable.  
  
A part of him wanted to tell her. She knew him well enough to catch him in a lie, at least in moments like these. And there was a part of him wanted to confess his fears and be comforted; to have her look into his eyes and tell him, with that wonderful conviction of hers, how it would never, ever happen. He wanted to be trusted. For her faith to drown out the knowledge that sat uneasily in the pit of his stomach- that it was only sheer luck that had kept it from being reality, and that as long as his power was tied to that dagger, it could all too easily _become_ so.  
  
On the other hand, he could imagine all too easily what any woman’s reaction would be to the knowledge that her new husband dreams about choking the life out of her.  
  
In the end, he settles for a half-truth, and hopes that she will be kind enough not to drag his dishonesty into the light.  
  
“You were dead,” he says, hesitantly adding, “And it was my fault.”  
  
Rumplestiltskin hadn’t really been expecting a rejection from her, but he is still relieved when it doesn’t come.  
  
She is still for several long minutes, thinking, though she doesn’t remove herself from his delicate embrace.  “There,” Belle says finally, with a note of tightness in her voice. “See? Now it can’t happen.”  
  
He allows himself to believe that she's right. Inside, the wheels are already turning.


	5. Liar pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating this! Got distracted by other shinies, and also this chapter got so long I finally gave up trying to hack it down tor reasonable length and had to break it into two pieces. But I hope I can make it up to you with angst and a bit of smut in this section.

The early-morning sunlight draws shifting patterns of shadows on the ceiling. Rumplestiltskin watches them and thinks.

If he lays still and quiet, he imagines he can hear the distant groaning as the levies protecting this fragile life he’s built for himself begin to crumble under the pressure from the other side. He can already see the cracks forming, thin and intricate as spider webs, there in the shadows on the ceiling.

Something is going to break. Soon. But if he acts quickly, it needn’t be him.

He has a way to rid himself of the curse’s control without compromising his powers.

He turns the idea around and around in his head, every piece fitting itself neatly into place, one-by-one, like the tumblers in a lock.

The perfection of it is nearly obscene. It won’t even be difficult, he thinks, not if he’s slow and careful. There were plenty of sources of magic, even in Storybrooke, that no one would miss. He knew them all. Knew their names. Knew where they worked.

Of the many things he is, wasteful isn’t one of them. He’d be a fool to throw away the perfect solution to a problem when it has so obligingly fallen into his lap.

Belle would disapprove, of course. That was an entirely different problem. And she wouldn’t be wrong. Even if everything went perfectly, what he was planning would be wicked and underhanded and cruel, albeit hopefully only to those who deserved it. But then- wicked, underhanded, and cruel were rather his specialties.

The fact is, as long as his name is on that dagger then Belle isn’t safe. Henry isn’t safe.

_He isn’t safe.  
  
She_ may be dead- gone and shattered into a thousand pieces, and how he regrets that now that the terrified urgency of the moment has passed; regrets that he didn’t do it more slowly, didn’t take his time, didn’t make it _hurt more_ \- but there would be others. There always were. Others who would want to follow _her_ lead, want to take the dagger and make him-  
  
The pirate still hated him, Rumplestiltskin was sure of it. And that winged nuisance, the Blue Fairy.

There may be a realm somewhere in which _justice_ and _fairness_ are more than just stories you tell your children, and in that perfect, shining world there would be a way for him and Belle to simply break the curse and live out the rest of their lives in peace.

But if such a place exists, he’s never set foot there. Rumplestiltskin is under no illusion that life is _fair_ , nor that this world will ever let him live in peace unless he _makes it_. For that he needs power.

And to get that power, he will have to do things which his wife finds objectionable.

Belle shifts in her sleep, as if she can sense the thoughts that are flitting through his head, grumbling and pressing her cold nose against his exposed collarbone.  

He pulls her closer. His wife, who comforted _him_ after he dreamt of choking the life out of her, and then distracted him with stories from her book until the shaking in his hands had stopped.

Sweet, kind Belle, who was optimistic enough to believe that if she just kept patiently trimming away at his madness that there would be anything recognizable left underneath. She could never countenance her own future coming at the cost of someone else’s.

People like Belle - good people, honest people- always believed that _there had to be a better way._ They would let their enemies surround them while they held out hope for a solution in which _no one got hurt._

It was why they would always need people like him.

Why good Snow White and her charming prince would curse his name in one breath, and then beg for his help with the next.

They needed him to do what they couldn’t bear to.

Rumplestiltskin had accepted lifetimes ago that some problems could only ever be solved with blood. But there was no need to spoil Belle’s happiness. If he’s careful, she need never be troubled by the steps he had taken to ensure her safety.

Was it not his job to protect his wife?

He is distracted from his thoughts as Belle begins to wake, sniffing and stretching. Her bare toes curl distractingly against his leg.

“Hey,” he says softly.  
  
“Mm. Morning,” she mumbles.

Craning his neck, Rumplestiltskin steals an awkward, sideways kiss while she is still soft and sleepy, sealing the deal with the press of his lips against her slack mouth. Belle arches up into it, following him, trying not to break the kiss, and overshooting and bumping her nose against his cheek in the process. He huffs, trying not to laugh. They’re both uncoordinated and drowsy. Perfection.

Rumplestiltskin carefully wraps the memory of that moment up in tissue paper, storing it away somewhere in the back of his mind. For a rainy day.

“Did you sleep?” Belle asks.

“Yes,” he lies, and tries to distract her with another kiss. 

“No more dreams?”  
  
“None.”

“I’m glad.” She hums contentedly against his lips.

One kiss becomes two, then three, then more. He loses count as Belle covers jawline in sweet, sucking little kisses and it becomes very clear just where her thoughts have turned.

They are still, for all intents and purposes, on their honeymoon.   
  
Magic had ensured a memorable wedding night, at least, and a potion hastily brewed in the dead of night had served since then to keep Belle from realizing the full extent of just how _broken_ her new husband was.  
  
He hadn’t bothered with it last night. He can see now that that may have been a mistake.   
  
She slides her leg over his, pressing herself distractingly against his hip, Her hands go to the pillow on either side of his head- _trapping him_ \- so that she can lean across his body and fix her hot little mouth against the other side of his neck . His stomach gives a low, wobbly lurch, torn somewhere between desire and disgust. He is suddenly breathing hard, perhaps harder than her mild attentions really deserve; something closer to panic than to lust. His skin prickles uncomfortably even as his cock gives a halfhearted twinge of interest.  
  
He nearly laughs at the absurdity of it. He can’t tell if he wants to fuck or throw up.

But his wife is expecting a husband.   
  
Rumplestiltskin is certain he will crumble to dust if he has to face that pitying look in Belle’s eyes again so soon.

Perhaps it's fortunate, then, he’s always been had a knack for showing people exactly the man he wants them to see.

He nudges her over, reversing their positions, so that he is half on top of her, and distracts her with another deep kiss hopefully before she can notice what he delicately thinks of- skirting around words even in his own mind- as a lack of _reaction_. Belle hums contentedly, happily unaware of his inner turmoil, twining her arms around his neck. He feels her fingers twist and tangle in his hair when he shows her with his tongue exactly what he wishes he could be doing to her now, until she groans and writhes up against him.

_Belle squirming underneath him- choking, crying- his hands around her throat-_

Rumplestiltskin crushes the memory violently. Banishes it back to the depths of his mind, where it lurks, hissing at him from the darkness.

He ignores it. Buries his face in her neck, pressing lingering kisses just beneath her ear, until the tension in his spine has ebbed.

It will pass. He’s fine. He’s _fine_. 

Belle is young and eager. Still relatively inexperienced, what with one thing and another conspiring to keep them apart so often. It shouldn’t take much.

One hand slides down the length of her body; a slow caress. He makes a performance of it. A tease. He is, in all things, a showman.

First, sweet feather-light touches of his fingertips as his hand trails down her exposed collarbone and over one silk-draped breast. Slow- _slower_ , making sure he has her full attention. Down her ribs- count them one two three-  feeling the way they rise and fall as she drags in a fluttering breath, and then his palm, flat against her belly, sliding lower.

Belle bites her lip, letting out an endearing little whimper, when his hand stops just above the junction of her thighs, and there is, at least, not a part of him that doesn’t enjoy that.   
  
That sound sparks an idea; the thought occurring to him from a distance, as if he’s watching from somewhere outside of his own body. From this place outside himself, he can control both of their bodies like marionettes. A string here, a string there, a movement of his hand just _so_ , and hear how she sighs for him. Crook his fingers _there_ and watch her hips arch up off the bed, twisting with pleasure. A masterpiece performance.

What first? Of course- a kiss. She never seems to get tired of kissing.

But Belle captures his mouth greedily when he offers it, devouring him- _pinning him in place_ with her hands in his hair until he feels like a captive insect being fixed to a mounting board-  
   
He slips out of her grasp before the bile can rise in his throat, not meeting her eyes for fear of what he'll see there, instead kissing his way down her neck, lower, leaving damp patches on pink silk as his mouth follows the trail left by his fingertips earlier, like breadcrumbs. One hand hitches her nightgown up to meet him as he goes, until his lips meet bare flesh again.

She has a handful of pale freckles just at the base of her ribcage. They were a delight to discover, and he always enjoys mapping the constellations of them with fingers or tongue. He pays them due homage now, before continuing lower; presses viciously, achingly slow kisses down her belly, ignoring the way she squirms underneath him, desperate for _more_ and _lower_. Belle whimpers, and he smirks against her skin and mouths insolently at the hollow of her hipbone, the inside of her thigh, deliberately oblivious to what she's silently begging for.

Rumplestiltskin does have a reputation for cruelty to maintain, after all.

Belle is taut as a bowstring, her head thrown back against the pillows and her lower lip caught between her teeth. Her fingers twist in the bedsheets next to him. The very picture of frustrated longing. Beautiful. So beautiful, the way the pale morning sunlight dapples her skin; the way her blood-flushed, bitten lips seem just on the verge of wrapping around his name.

Rumplestiltskin bundles up the memory of her like this and places it next to the other. He can take pleasure in the control, at least, if not the act. At her desperation. Her need. At the sight of his Belle so undone after nothing but his hands and his mouth on her skin. His. At having been the one to unmake her.

He can smell her, this close. That familiar, coppery-dark scent of longing mixing with the salt-tang of her skin.

Originally, Rumplestiltskin had intended to wait until she begged. On second thought, after last night, he thinks that perhaps he can afford to be generous.

He pointedly doesn’t think of how his neck is cramping up or of how eager he is to be done.

Without warning, he pulls Belle down the bed a little, closer to him, and buries his face between her legs, startling a surprised little ‘ _oh!’_ from her. There is a moment of awkward limbs- her feet slip against the sheets, nearly kicking him- before he hitches her thighs up over his shoulders.

Belle pants and whimpers and groans his name, while Rumplestiltskin fucks her with his tongue, very carefully thinking of nothing.

When she comes, clutching at his hair, he feels like a liar.


End file.
